


Ink

by monchy



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Bloodplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monchy/pseuds/monchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Anakin had always known that there was something more in Obi-Wan, something indescribable, dark, almost painful, hiding behind capes of fake perfection."</p><p>Inspired by The Pillow Book</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ink

Anakin had always known that there was something more in Obi-Wan, something indescribable, dark, almost painful, hiding behind capes of fake perfection. If Obi-Wan hid it conscious or unconsciously was something Anakin never dared to ask him, a little mystery drawn in a soft smile.  
  
Anakin had seen it for the first time while Obi-Wan read. A huge tome rested between his hands, the intense scent of his skin mixing with that of the old leather. His eyes had looked dark grey; thin strands of his reddish hair had fallen on his forehead, uncaring, wild. The position of his body imitating the one of a feline lost inside his own world, ignoring his surroundings, a predator becoming an easy prey. And then, with a swift, confident move, a quill had been trapped between long fingers, starting then to draw dark letters on the now violated white of the paper. Anakin had imagined every trace of that known calligraphy, the long, sharp letters written in black ink, being born from the cold end of the quill. At some point, his senses had stopped seeing legible letters and had started to imagine his own skin being drawn by agile fingers, soft fingertips and then, a single gasp coming from his mouth had alerted Obi-Wan of his presence, stopping the pleasure of writing, returning him to a known reality of hidden truths.  
  
It would take Anakin some years to find the secret that shined behind Obi-Wan’s eyes.  
  
**  
  
Kirino was a strange place. It was a small planet situated in the frontiers of the Outer Rim, which every civilization seemed to want to forget. Kirino wasn’t lead by monarchs or politics; it lacked slaves and that barbaric tendency of the Outer Rim. What seemed to keep everyone who looked in its direction away was an incomprehensible religion based in the art of calligraphy. Of course, the Republic had stayed away from the place until its strategic position had dragged the Jedi Council’s attention.  
  
“So this people basically use all their time writing, right?” asked Anakin.   
  
Obi-Wan sighed, resigned. The room they were in wasn’t too big and it lacked furniture, but the tall ceiling and white walls made him feel small and seemed to bring too much attention to his plain Jedi robes.  
  
“Yes Anakin, but don’t ask them that, yes?”   
  
Anakin huffed, straightening an imaginary wrinkle in his cape. He hated waiting.  
  
“But Master, how are we supposed to–” a soft cough turned Anakin’s voice OFF, forcing both of them to look forward.  
  
A small man – the same one that had received them – indicated them to follow him, and they both walked behind him. They went through the big white doors that had stayed closed until now and found themselves walking down a narrow and apparently endless hallway. The walls and the floor were covered with strange black symbols, which became golden at some point and, looked in a certain angle, shined blood red. Anakin found himself wondering if the used ink wasn’t exactly that. The thin lines seemed to form letters of an unknown language, bright and scary on the white marble to Anakin’s eyes until, his eyes looking at his Master, the illegible lines took a soft, delicate aspect, Obi-Wan’s dilated pupils giving them an erotic shade. When he started missing his air, Anakin realized that they had gone through another pair of doors and that his feet had stopped.  
  
The new room was slightly bigger than the first one, the floor completely black and the walls covered in letters and drawings, green, golden and reddish tones getting confused in the candlelight that lit the room. Just like the other room it lacked any kind of furniture, but it wasn’t totally empty. In the middle and with his back to them, a dark-skinned man kneeled before a great circular symbol drawn in the darkest shade of black. The man stayed still for what looked like hours to Anakin but, finally, he stood up and turned around, offering them both a neutral expression. Obi-Wan widened his smile, entering diplomatic mode but, when he opened his mouth, willing to impress the man with his kind speech, the man raised one hand, stopping his words.  
  
“I know what you come to ask and I know I can’t concede it.”   
  
Obi-Wan stayed silent, feeling that there was more to listen to.   
  
“Unless you manage to understand.”   
  
the man clapped twice, the sound bouncing against the walls and lingering uncomfortably.  
  
Two young girls entered the room, one of them carrying a bottle filled with what Anakin assumed was black ink, and the other one two yellowed pieces of parchment and a metallic end quill.  
  
“Our calligraphy is what you must understand, our calligraphy...”   
  
The man stayed silent for a few seconds and finally, shaking his head, he took both pieces of parchment and put them on the floor in front of them. Then, with a flourish, he offered Anakin the quill, who took it after Obi-Wan nodded.  
  
The girl who held the ink kneeled beside him and when the man nodded energetically, Anakin fell on his knees and wetted the end of the quill on the ink, staining then one of the parchments with his rushed, clumsy letters. The man took the quill away from him with a bitterly offended gesture in his face, but when it was Obi-Wan’s turn, his elegant tracing seemed to satisfy him.  
  
“You shall write, then,” he stated, letting Obi-Wan play with the quill between his hands.  
  
“What should I write?”   
  
The man extended a third piece of parchment on the floor. The yellow old paper   
was filled with illegible signs, long and thin symbols that seemed to tell a story.   
  
“But I don’t know what it means.”  
  
“The meaning is irrelevant, it’s the tracing, the call–”  
  
“But calligraphy is only an instrument, the way of transmitting a message.”   
  
Anakin was surprised by how furious Obi-Wan’s tone was, by how defying he was being towards a needed ally.   
  
“If letters had no meaning they wouldn’t be more than vulgar drawings.”  
  
“No!” the man stood up swiftly, imposing over their kneeled figures. “ Write, see, understand.”  
  
Obi-Wan looked away, pressing the quill between his fingers. Anakin leaned a hand on his shoulder almost unconsciously, finding his eyes with his own, and invisible line of understanding between them.  
  
“Alright,” whispered Obi-Wan nodding. “Where should I write it?”   
  
The man seemed to repress a laugh while his eyes looked at Anakin.  
  
“What better paper for the ink of a warrior than the skin of the most trusted partner?”   
  
Anakin's eyes opened huge and incredulous, but before he could complain the man made the young girls a sign and they proceeded to take their boots and cloaks away.  
  
With one last gesture, the girls left the room, leaving back the quill, the ink and the parchment with the incomprehensible text.  
  
“And of course, don’t forget to sign your work.”   
  
Without another word, the man left the room.  
  
They both stayed still for a few seconds, Obi-Wan feeling the quill suddenly heavy on his hand, Anakin swallowing hard, his eyes still huge.  
  
“Was he being serious?” he managed to articulate a few seconds later.  
  
“I’m afraid so.”  
  
Anakin looked away before Obi-Wan could catch a glimpse of his reddening cheeks but finally, he stood up and got rid of his upper clothing, tossing it carelessly on the floor.  
  
“When I dreamed as a child of becoming a Jedi, I wasn’t thinking exactly about this,” he said while he laid on the dark floor and spread his arms, trembling slightly to the contact with the cold marble.   
  
Obi-Wan laughed softly, kneeling next to him and bringing the bottle of ink closer to him.  
  
“Neither did I, trust me.”  
  
Obi-Wan wetted the end of the quill in the ink, letting the excess drip and, with a sigh, he extended Anakin’s palm, starting to draw the first symbol. Anakin let air he didn’t know he had been holding escape and, before he even noticed it, Obi-Wan had drawn symbols through half his arm. The ink was cold and the quill’s end almost tore his skin, making him think that it would trespass it and mix his blood with the ink. Obi-Wan looked hypnotized, getting closer to Anakin’s skin, breathing over the   
cold ink. His eyes had dilated slightly, and Anakin had to suppress a shiver when their gazes met.  
  
Obi-Wan stopped when his hand reached his shoulder, breathing with difficulty, fast. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, enough to let Anakin see that image that was his Master but something else all the same. Then Obi-Wan opened up his eyes and something had changed inside them, his bright blue color becoming dark grey, stealing Anakin’s breath away. When the quill touched his skin again, Anakin let his eyelids fall shut, breathing the aroma of the ink mixed with Obi-Wan’s and his own.  
Suddenly, a touch of the quill on the curve of his arm and Anakin giggled softly.  
  
“It tickles,” he whispered, smiling and opening his eyes.   
  
Obi-Wan smiled without looking at him, writing now on his collarbone, pressing the quill stronger against his skin.   
  
“Do you remember…”   
  
Anakin stopped when the quill started to draw on one of his pectorals, cold ink and warm breathing bristling his skin.  
  
“Do you remember when I was little and you lectured me for writing my homework on my hand?”   
  
Obi-Wan laughed softly, taking the quill away and wetting it again.  
  
“Ironic, isn’t it?”   
  
Anakin had to bite his lip when he heard Obi-Wan’s tone, low, dismal, infinitely erotic.  
  
When the quill went back to his skin, Anakin knew he couldn’t keep talking. There was something… something almost primitive in all this, and Obi-Wan’s hand holding the quill strongly, tracing unknown symbols on his skin was having all kinds of effects on him.  
  
Obi-Wan stopped for a few seconds when the quill met his left nipple, raising slightly, deciding if the ink should touch the now hard nub. He looked into Anakin’s eyes, dark and wild, and then looked back to the chest that was his paper. He breathed strongly and kept writing, leaving the nipple untouched.  
  
Anakin swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling fast with his agitated breathing and, with an involuntary movement, Obi-Wan let the ink run away, watching with an almost feline delight the way the black drop slid down Anakin’s chest, caressing his stomach and drowning in his navel, leaving a dark path behind it.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan whispered, and a shaking hand touched Anakin’s stomach, forcing him to arch to the contact.  
  
Obi-Wan buried his finger in the black pool that had formed on Anakin’s navel and then slid it through the rest of the black line, smearing the ink, erasing it little by little, firmly but with fingers that trembled when the skin shook under them. Anakin dig his nails on the floor, and involuntary moan leaving his throat, closed eyes and arched back, looking for the fingers that had already left him.  
  
Anakin shivered when the end of the quill caressed his skin again, its moves more rushed and less careful, somewhat clumsier, a perfect imitation of Obi-Wan’s uncontrolled breathing. Anakin found himself with parted lips and closed eyes, his senses lost in the hot-cold contrast, in the wet ink and the hard edge of the quill, in the random touches of Obi-Wan’s warm hand.  
  
And then, a second drop slid from the writing, descending down Anakin’s side, caressing him under his ribcage. Anakin heard Obi-Wan’s breathing stop, his fingers press the quill. When Obi-Wan’s warm breath caressed his skin, Anakin forced himself to open his eyes, just to see Obi-Wan’s tongue draw the same path the drop had, move up then, smearing the still wet ink. To the first contact, all Anakin could do was shiver, but when Obi-Wan’s tongue left him and his mouth found a piece of clean skin, he arched against him, breathing heavily.  
  
“Ob–” but an ink-stained finger stopped his words.  
  
Anakin allowed himself to lick the sensitive fingertip, tasting the bitter taste of the ink with the salty of Obi-Wan’s skin. Obi-Wan’s lips caressed his chest, getting black stains when going through the letters he himself had drawn, blotting his skin until, after licking a hard nipple, he took it with his mouth, sucking softly. Anakin’s arms moved spontaneously, his hands burying in Obi-Wan’s coppery hair, ruffling it, caressing it. Not separating from Anakin and with his eyes closed, Obi-Wan wetted the quill again and kept writing on Anakin’s waist.  
  
Anakin let Obi-Wan do whatever it was he was doing, surprised, scared, excited and lost. Obi-Wan’s drawings were completely messy now, hurried and casual, an almost painful caress on his skin. Obi-Wan left his nipple, taking his mouth to his neck, leaning his lips softly on skin he hadn’t painted, breathing Anakin’s scent mixed with the ink’s strong smell.  
  
Anakin recovered his ability to breath when Obi-Wan moved away, kneeling and looking at his written body, part of the ink smeared by his own hands. Obi-Wan’s eyes turned aside momentarily to the parchment, counting the symbols he still had to write and then looked back at Anakin, chest, stomach and arms all covered in black. He took one hand to the waist of Anakin’s pants and tore them off, not giving him time to arch up and help him.  
  
They stayed static for a few seconds, Obi-Wan looking at the body in front of him, Anakin breathing heavily. Then, Obi-Wan descended his lips on Anakin’s hips, kissing softly the bones that led to his groin, taking the wet quill to Anakin’s leg. The lines were now big, thick, the quill tearing Anakin’s skin, leaving a soft trace of blood on the most sensitive spots.  
  
Anakin didn’t know what made him react, but when Obi-Wan’s lips bit his inner thigh, he sat quickly, taking Obi-Wan’s shoulders in his hands and forcing a kiss on his lips. Their lips met each other, clumsy and rough, all teeth and tongue, mouths devouring breaths, biting, kissing, needy and desperate. Anakin tore Obi-Wan’s upper clothing without a second thought, joining their chests, entwining their arms. When Anakin bit Obi-Wan’s lower lip, a thin thread of blood leaving his mouth, Obi-Wan pushed him and held him against the floor. He looked at him for a few seconds, the writing on his chest ruined, his sensitive skin, his reddened lips, sweat caressing his neck, ruffled hair, fast breathing, trembling limbs.  
  
Deliberately slow, Obi-Wan went through all his body with his eyes, stopping on a clean leg, the only part of him lacking ink. He let go of Anakin’s arms and, wetting the quill once more, he descended down his body and started to draw the last lines on the soft skin of his thigh. The last four symbols were drawn by a trembling hand, but they came out long and elegant. When Obi-Wan finished the last necessary trace, he let the quill drop to the floor and stopped to look at his work, his calligraphy on Anakin’s body. Beautiful.  
  
Obi-Wan had written, he was seeing, and he started to understand.  
  
But Anakin didn’t give him much time to think. Seeing the work completed, Anakin took the bottle of ink between his hands and, with a swift movement, he threw the rest of it into Obi-Wan’s chest, watching with morbid satisfaction the contrast of the black stain against his Master’s white skin. Obi-Wan looked at his own chest and Anakin launched forward, kissing his lips strongly and pushing him to the floor. Anakin tore Obi-Wan’s pants with the same strength he had used on his other clothing and dig his nails on the soft skin of his hips. Obi-Wan arched against him and Anakin started descending down his chest, breathing Obi-Wan’s sweat mixed with ink.  
  
Anakin spread Obi-Wan’s legs and, sliding his body down Obi-Wan’s stained chest, he started writing his name with childish, thick letters on Obi-Wan’s inner thigh. When he finished the last n, he leaned his mouth on the letters, kissing each one, staining his lips. It was when Anakin offered him a black smile that Obi-Wan remembered the last part of this. His movement was sharp, forced, but Anakin moaned when he kneeled behind him, caressing his back with a firm palm. Their bodies were covered in smeared ink, but Anakin’s back was free of black, his tanned skin perfectly clean.  
  
Obi-Wan kissed his spine while his hand found the quill on the floor. Sign his work… but there was no ink left.  
  
“Anak–”  
  
“Do it, come on... please.”  
  
The quill’s end broke Anakin’s skin the same moment Obi-Wan entered him. Anakin moaned, arching forward, the line separating pleasure from pain as smeared as the ink on his body. Obi-Wan watched the blood dot starting to slid down Anakin’s back and he moved inside him, continuing his drawing. Anakin bit his lip, letting his arms fall forward but allowing his body to meet Obi-Wan’s torturously slow thrusts.  
  
Obi-Wan moved the quill away when a perfect red O was marked on Anakin’s skin, blood sliding down his back, smearing just as the ink had.  
  
“Keep going.”  
  
Obi-Wan surrounded Anakin with a strong arm, holding him in a comfortable position and started moving his hips again, going in and out his body while the quill drew the first line of the b. Anakin groaned and Obi-Wan had to fasten the rhythm, holding him stronger. He leaned his forehead on Anakin’s neck, the scent of blood mixing with that of sweat, erotic and intoxicating. When Obi-Wan kissed Anakin’s scalp he leaned back, introducing the quill deeper into his skin. With a painful moan, appeared the perfect dot of the i.  
  
“Ana–”  
  
“Keep going,” and Obi-Wan did, “oh Force, don’t stop.”  
  
Anakin moved against him, turning the beginnings of the w down, spilling more blood than necessary. Obi-Wan bit his lower lip strongly, moving the quill away from the damaged skin. He descended his tongue to the unnecessary path and licked the spilled blood, leaving his lips on Anakin’s shoulder, kissing and licking while the quill started to cut again, finishing the w and starting the a.  
  
Anakin dig his nails in Obi-Wan’s thighs strongly, moving against him, not allowing him to slow down the rhythm of his thrusts, moaning with every blood red pattern the quill drew. With the last line of the n Obi-Wan threw the quill against the closest wall, holding Anakin’s hips and moving faster inside him. He looked at the traces on Anakin’s back, his name shining in bright blood, cascading down the perfectly tanned skin.  
  
“Oh, Anakin.”   
  
Anakin moaned a little bit higher and Obi-Wan felt the younger body relax, his muscles lose their tension, pleasure forcing the body he held to tremble.  
  
Obi-Wan didn’t need anything more and let his own orgasm fill his body, letting his forehead fall on the wounded back, staining his face with Anakin’s blood. He took one hand to Anakin’s face and stirred his neck, forcing him to lean his head on his shoulder. Anakin let Obi-Wan kiss him slowly, firmly but softly, layer of lip atop layer of lip fitting perfectly.  
  
Anakin smiled when their lips separated, watching with half-closed eyes Obi-Wan’s still dilated pupils. He let all his weight fall on Obi-Wan breathing the smell of ink, blood and sweat, feeling pain and pleasure, his wounded skin calming against Obi-Wan’s.  
  
Anakin closed his eyes and then, he blacked out.  
  
***  
  
When Anakin came back, he found himself between soft white sheets. There was no blood or ink, but there was Obi-Wan. His arms and legs were entwined with his own, his coppery hair spreading messily on his chest, his breathing calmed in the arms of sleep. Obi-Wan looked peaceful, strangely freed, and Anakin knew that this was his Obi-Wan, his severe but kind Master and at the same time someone else, someone to discover with soft caresses and desperate kisses.  
  
With a smile, Anakin let sleep claim him back.  
  
***  
  
Anakin and Obi-Wan had left Kirino with an alliance for the Republic and a accomplice smile. Life had been different after it, better. Obi-Wan tattooed Anakin’s name on his inner thigh, right where he had written it with black ink, and Anakin didn’t let the healers erase the scars on his back, keeping Obi-Wan’s name marked on his skin.  
  
It had taken Anakin years to understand secrets and truths behind Obi-Wan, but since then, watching him write for hours, reading with him, caressing his skin, becoming his book occasionally, Anakin has discovered that what shined behind Obi-Wan’s eyes was the simplest of passions, a passion Obi-Wan freed over his skin and a passion that belonged only to him.


End file.
